


Blood of the Covenant

by MetaphoricalPants



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Not Related, Brooklyn 99 anyone?, F/M, Grandmaster runs a seedy club, Loki and Thor Are Not Related, M/M, Mafia AU, Multi, The cops are the comedic relief, They deserve a spinoff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-15 15:01:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16065584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MetaphoricalPants/pseuds/MetaphoricalPants
Summary: An old king dead.A new one at the helm.The same Captain of the NYPD hot on their trails.A loaded gun sits in wait in the tangled web of the New York club scene.Kingdoms rise and fall in the alleys of the industrial giant, Manhattan.And the reign of the Odinson family may have just come to an end.





	Blood of the Covenant

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Loki and Thor are NOT related in this. Loki was not adopted by the Odinsons. He is a Laufeyson. 
> 
> Song: Apotheosis by Kai Straw  
> Spotify Link: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4P5yeDUGvqtvp65DjcDX

_Apotheosis: Glorification to the level of the divine;deification._

        He’s twelve when he realizes the weight of the situation resting on his adolescent shoulders. The steady beep of a heart monitor filtering through the air and the clinical smell of the hospital assaulting his nostrils as he glanced into the corridor of a busy hospital, wondering when it would be him lying in a gown riddled with bullet holes.

        He’s twenty three when that question is answered for him at his father’s funeral. Diving behind plastic chairs as everything seems to slow; he could almost feel the world spinning as his shoulder slammed into the cold earth that his father’s body would soon be suspended in. He looked up at the chaos, people running and women screaming as bullets pierce air and flesh. His eyes met a pair of green ones, so familiar as he felt his chest tightening. Those eyes from under the brim of a hat, those familiar lips curled into a sickening smirk as he found himself looking into the barrel of a gun. With an explosion, his world went dark.

        But that’s a different story.  
\--  
        He’s twelve when he realizes the weight of the situation resting on his adolescent shoulders. The steady beep of a heart monitor filtering through the air and the clinical smell of the hospital assaulting his nostrils as he glanced into the corridor of a busy hospital, wondering when it would be him lying in a gown riddled with bullet holes.

        It’s not the first time he's found himself sitting in a hospital room with his father, but this time had been bad. He’d died on the table but they’d been able to revive him, much to Thor’s relief, but the battle hadn’t been won yet. Heimdall, his father’s second, entered the room and gave him an endearing smile that was enough to convince him that they might be okay; a large hand coming to cup a sagging shoulder in the most fatherly of ways.

        Innocence wasn’t a word that Thor had ever known, born and raised in a turbulent household on its own. Wars in back alleys translated to wars over an ancient wooden dining room table, hands over ears as he closed his ears and tried to drown out the noise. Far too many beers and far too many mistakes, tears and blood spilled over the smallest details he would remember for the rest of his life.

        At the age of six, he’d witness his first murder. He supposed at the time he didn’t understand. He didn’t know what death meant. He didn’t realize that it was forever; that death was something that would follow him his entire life.

        At fifteen, his mother had died. Stabbed in their kitchen. Returning from school, he’d swung into the kitchen with a sense of childish joy he’d rarely felt, only to find her lying there. As the world slowed, he’d fallen back into Heimdall’s grasp, his second father holding his hyperventilating form close to his chest as his ears seemed to deafen with the shock of the scene before him. They’d taken her jewelry: the lavish wedding band his father had gifted her, the locket he’d given her for her birthday that year -- all of it purchased with blood money. He wanted to scream, to close his eyes, but he couldn’t. He lay limp in Heimdall’s staring at his mother’s body. She looked just as beautiful in death, cold cheek against cold tile, her eyes open in an eternal broken stare, the color had already bled from her eyes. He’d remember their color though, and how the rose in her cheeks would shine through as she smiled, her blood staining a white tile floor.

        Being the front-running family of the underground crime ring circuit in New York, death was part of life. Every day someone was bleeding in the streets, whether by bullet of assailant or well organized hits, maybe even sheer misfortune, he supposed. Part of him wished it never had to be that way, that he and his father could play ball in the yard and that he had been put on strong capable shoulders as a child and carried through the years that mattered; that his mother would still be singing in the kitchen instead of in a custom wooden box with her photograph embossed on the front. Even she didn’t have the privilege of innocent.

        “So he’ll be okay? You don’t have to lie to me.” Thor looked at Heimdall, his hands balled into small fists at his sides, looking at a man he regarded as a father to him. At times, Heimdall was more the man he wished his father was. Stoic and gently encouraging, a large warming hand ruffling untamed long blonde locks, sullying Thor’s hardened expression into a repressed smile.

        “You are old enough for truths.”

        He thought he was at the time, twelve and old for his age; proud of his family and yet so scared that something would break the fragile balance they were precariously suspended in. But at twenty three, he realized that though it was the truth, it wasn’t the whole of it.

        The image of him on a slab was surreal--identifying the body he had associated with his role model, as it lay now, a bullet addled shell. No eye patch to withhold the dark socket that had led Thor’s imagination as a child.

        “Thor, I’m sorry.”

        It was then that he’d hear Heimdall choked up for the first time in his life and he felt his blood run cold. He’d been waiting twenty three years for this call, never knowing when it would come, only that it would. Death was cold and inevitable, a part of life more so for him that he could ever understand. He could remember their faces: the warmth of his mother’s smile, his companions’ laughs in the face of challenge, their expressions brave and so sure until they too had left this earth. He couldn’t image seeing his father on a slab, his father’s eyes closed and his face still as stoic as the day Thor was born.

        “He’s dead.”

        Those simple words felt like the world had come crashing onto his broad shoulders, and it had. With his father dead, he was to now carry the family, something he’d spent his entire life trying to prepare himself for and yet, still he couldn’t fathom it. Just as the world had seemed to slow before, he found himself in a nauseating limbo between heir and patriarch; a captain at the helm of a sinking ship.

        The funeral was in the six days following.

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to my baby who is also my editor <3 (who is wlwstevengrogers on AO3)  
> Please kudo and comment!


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